Chapter 20 - lucinda came home and the first thing she asked for was more time
Lucinda was released under supervision when Isla was three.
The family court had already planned for that day for over a year.
No surprises.
No sudden custody motion.
No dramatic doorstep.
Still, when her attorney filed for therapeutic reunification, I reacted like she had tried to break into my house.
“No.”
My attorney waited.
I hated when lawyers waited.
“No.”
“She is Isla’s mother.”
“She drugged me.”
“Yes.”
“She slapped Elisa.”
“Yes.”
“She lied through an entire pregnancy.”
“Yes.”
“Then what are we discussing?”
“Isla.”
That word ended the speech.
My attorney continued.
“Not whether Lucinda deserves anything.”
“What arrangement serves Isla.”
I despised that the law refused to punish through child custody automatically.
Then realized that was exactly what I wanted when the child was mine.
Lucinda underwent evaluation.
Treatment records reviewed.
Risk assessment.
Parenting sessions.
No active substance problem.
No recent violence.
No contact violations.
The recommendation was extremely limited.
One hour.
Therapeutic setting.
No physical contact unless Isla initiated.
No discussion of case history.
No promises.
No gifts beyond something small approved in advance.
I still wanted no.
Then Elisa, now ten, heard enough to ask:
“Does Isla want to see her?”
“She doesn’t really understand.”
“Then how do adults know?”
“We don’t perfectly.”
She nodded.
“Do you hate Lucinda?”
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised both of us.
I corrected.
“I hate things she did.”
“Do you hate her?”
I thought.
“Sometimes.”
Elisa looked toward Isla playing with blocks.
“Does Isla?”
“No.”
“She barely knows her.”
Exactly.
I did not get to lend Isla my hatred until she was old enough to return it.
The first reunion happened with a therapist present.
I watched remotely from another room.
Lucinda entered.
Stopped.
Isla sat at a tiny table drawing.
Lucinda began crying.
The therapist immediately reminded her:
“Manage your emotion yourself.”
Good.
Lucinda wiped her face.
Sat across the room.
“Hi, Isla.”
Isla looked up.
“You’re Lucinda.”
Not Mom.
We had used her name because pretending a maternal relationship already existed would be confusing.
“Yes.”
“Daddy says you’re my mom.”
Lucinda’s face broke again.
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you live with me?”
The therapist had prepared for this.
Lucinda answered carefully.
“Because I made unsafe choices before you were born and when your sister was little.”
Isla frowned.
“Did you hurt me?”
“No.”
Technically true.
Then Lucinda stopped.
“I hurt people in your family.”
Better.
Isla thought.
Then:
“Did you hurt Elisa?”
Lucinda looked down.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I was scared of getting caught in a lie.”
Isla accepted that with the brutal simplicity of a three-year-old.
“That was bad.”
“Yes.”
Then returned to coloring.
Lucinda looked toward the observation camera.
Not knowing whether I was watching.
I was.
Her request afterward was not for more time.
That surprised me.
Her therapist reported:
“She said one hour was enough because Isla looked overwhelmed.”
I almost resented that too.
Because change complicated hatred.
The next session happened two weeks later.
Then another.
Months.
No rushing.
Lucinda never got unsupervised access immediately.
She did not ask.
That mattered.
Not enough to forgive.
May you like
Enough to continue observing.
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